Poetry
by chosenpotter
Summary: "the words that spilled from draco malfoy's lips were like poetry, and harry couldn't help but to become enamored." or, in which a world becomes colorful, and words cannot be enough to describe it.
1. i

He wakes with his heart in his throat, panicked breaths escaping his lips, sheets twisted around his legs. Green eyes open wide to stare at the ceiling, and for once moment, he's still on the battlefield. Nothing's changed, and he's to die once more.

His head turns to gaze across the room, just nearly making out Ron's shape across the room, the sound of the other's snoring reaching his ears. His body relaxes, grip loosening from the hem of the blankets that he's cocooned himself in.

It's been almost four months since May 3rd, and yet, Harry feels like he hasn't moved on a day. Like he's stuck in a never-ending warp that continues to rip him limb from limb. Every night's the same, the nightmares and the guilt, the painful memories that refuse to stop resurfacing. It's slowly killing him, he's sure, but he doesn't talk about it. Nobody else should ever bear his burdens again.

Despite himself, he grabs his spectacles, sliding them on as he sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold, so he shoves his feet into his slippers as a second thought, draping a dressing gown over his shoulders as he slips out of the room that he shares with his best friend.

The Burrow is quiet, and he's the only one awake at his hour. It's hardly six in the morning, and he knows they don't have to wake until at least nine, but he doesn't want to go back to sleep. Not now, when the nightmares will flood his head once more, and it'll be like he never slept at all. It's better to be awake.

He can barely see the morning sun over the horizon as he steps outside, standing in the grass with his arms braced across his chest. There's a slight chill in the air, odd for September, but it's nicer than the usual heat that beats down upon his back.

The familiar smell of carnations and violets fills his nostrils, a smaller hand slipping through his. He can see fiery red hair out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn't look at her. He's been avoiding her, he knows that. Things have been rocky.

"Harry." her voice is soft, pitying. "Talk to me."

"I don't want to." his voice is rough, unforgiving. "Go back to sleep, Ginny. If conversation is what you came for, I'm afraid you've come to the wrong person for that sort of thing."

"Then I'll talk." she says firmly, standing in front of him so he's forced to at least have her in his line of vision. "I know we aren't working out. I just . . . you've got this uncomfortableness radiating off of you every time you see me. I'm not mad, I just want to know why."

Harry couldn't look at her, trying to avert his gaze. But she commands attention, she's just that type of girl, so he meets her brown eyes.

"Ginny, I . . . I'm not ready. I _can't._ I'm still too raw and broken, and . . . I'm so sorry. I can't be in a relationship right now. I've still got to heal." he finally says, sounding quite ashamed.

He knew she had wanted to be with him more than anything else in the world. He had loved her once, he was sure of that. But now, it felt so different. The passion that she gave to him, he just couldn't return.

"I understand." Ginny wears a sad smile, giving his hand a squeeze. "I'm not mad, I promise you that. But . . . I just want a life, you know? A family. Someone to heal with. If you let me go now, Harry, I can't promise that I'll ever come back. That's something _you_ need to understand."

"I do. But I don't want to disappoint you, Ginny. I'd rather separate then put up some fake facade for the rest of my life."

Her smile is warm, and she stands on her tiptoes to kiss him upon the cheek. He almost falls right back in love right there and then, remembering who they used to be. But they're different people now, and perhaps it's better to go their separate ways then keep living like they do now, with fakes smiles and forced love. She'll always be like a sister to him, always. He won't let their friendship go easily. But she needs someone who'll give her what she wants, and right now, that isn't him.

"Thank you." she whispers in his ear, and he holds her against his chest. "Thank you, Harry."

He merely rakes a hand through her red, red locks, listening to the sounds of birds chirping. The world is quiet here, just the two of them against what's to come. But they part as friends, as she slips back up the porch and into the house, as he takes one last look at the horizon and goes back upstairs to perhaps catch a bit more sleep.

Everything's changed.


	2. ii

Maroon leaks from beneath onyx skin, and he laughs. It's positively beautiful, and he wonders how he hadn't done this all before. He's seen his own blood splattered over the marble floors of the Manor, but never has he ever been the cause. It feels so good, so lovely.

Lovely pink lips curve in a smile, and he laughs again, the sound raw and real. The first real thing in months upon months, and he's loving it. Crescent moon nails dig into the soft skin there, coming away absolutely soaked and ruined.

"Draco!"

His mother, her voice so sweet. She doesn't know of course, but he's tired of hiding. Maybe he should show her.

"Episkey."

He's closed once more, washing blood from under his nails in the sink, splashing water on his face as he adjusts his cloak. Today was important, oh so important. He had to look his best, to display the proud chest of a Malfoy heir. He can't let them see what he really is, the person beneath his skin, the bones that crack and splinter.

 _Monster._

 _HDHD_

He walks tall, alone. His mother isn't well these days, always in bed, never going out into the sun. He misses her, the way she smelled like lavender and comfort.

( he's _scared_ to be alone. )

He's enveloped in steam as he pushes his trolley through the wall, carefully taking in everything, calculating a route where he won't bump into too many people. He knows what they'll say, he knows what they'll do.

He can feel eyes on him, the gazes burning into the back of his head. Of course they're staring, they wonder why he isn't in Azkaban.

( he wonders that himself. )

A small turn of his head to the right, and he spots a familiar pair of green eyes, almost glowing out of the crowd. But a blink, and they're gone. Perhaps he's imagining things.

He feels so empty now, no friends by his side to keep him company, nobody there to comfort him when he can't take it anymore. He glances at his wrists, at the sleeves of his jumper where he knows the Mark is hidden.

It's so hard to live, to breathe. Would it be so bad to end it?

( would anyone miss him? )

Would anyone really _care?_

 _HDHD_

The world's simply too loud, though it's a bit quieter in here. Nobody wants to sit with the ex-Death Eater, so he's lucky enough to have a compartment to himself. He hardly takes up much space, scrunched against the window with all the curtains closed.

The darkness soothes him, and he's just falling asleep when the door squeaks open. He doesn't look up, he doesn't care enough to see who's there. They'll probably leave in a moment, anyways, once they see who's inside.

"Can I sit here?"

He doesn't even need to open his eyes to know who stands at the doorway, doesn't even need to look to know what the other's doing. Shifty feet, nervous smile, hands twisted in the folds of his robes.

"No."

The cushion next to him sinks in as the other takes an unwelcome seat, and he cracks one grey eye open to glare.

"Get out of my compartment, Potter, I already told you no."

Harry continued to sit there, his eyes wide and innocent, one leg crossed over the other with a crooked smile.

"I know what you said. But I decided I'd like to sit anyways." he said, his voice a whisper.

Draco merely sighs, turning onto his side so he faces the wall. He doesn't want to look at Potter, let alone speak to him.

But, the presence of someone else there beside him wasn't, as he thought, so bad.


End file.
